One
by momobird
Summary: A story of John's long and arduous path to recovery after the loss of his friend, told in a series of one's. Post-Reichenbach.


**Welcome to the angst party that is my first _Sherlock _fanfic. There's a little bit of headcanon splashed in there, but I hope you'll still enjoy it! And, God, if this doesn't perfectly picture my emotions...**

* * *

_One second._

John can only gape in horror as he watches the only man in the world to ever impact his life fall to his death.

_One minute._

His head starts to spin in disbelief. His throat opens and closes painfully, making it hard to breathe. He stares at the broken body being lifted and placed onto a stretcher. And he can't make a move. His own body is as cold, stiff, and lifeless as the one before him. The one that once held the life of his friend.

As the body disappears into the hospital, John's life, as he knows it, begins to slowly fade away.

_One hour._

Reporters. Cameras. Crowds. By then, John's already far away. He knows not to stay there and doesn't want to anyway.

_One day._

At the flat, John sits in his armchair trying very hard not to think, just like _he_ would have wanted when a case was present. However hard he tries to block everything out, he can still hear Mrs. Hudson cry in another room, and it only makes the ache in his chest throb even more painfully than the scar on his shoulder.

Day turns into night.

_One week._

John would give anything to be elsewhere and not here. At _his_ funeral.

He stands there contemplating the engraved stone, says what he needs to say alone, breaks down. And it's done. It's over.

When he walks, he barely notices that he's limping again.

_One month._

He doesn't answer the phone. Or the door. In fact, he rarely goes out anymore. The days pass by in a slow and painful blur.

There was one night though when Lestrade (now Constable Lestrade) had rung him up and dragged him out for a drink at the local pub. He got himself roaring drunk and can barely remember anything of that night, but that's what he wants. To not remember.

But as the month ends, he realizes that being in this room, in this flat, in this building, is too much. He _does _remember. There are too many objects here that remind him of…

No. He can't think. Not now.

Not ever.

So he moves out.

_One year._

Strangely enough, things start to gradually become normal, and the ache in his chest slowly fades into the background. It's still there, a tiny remnant of memories, and at times, it throbs hard enough to paralyze him but he's learned to suppress it.

John finds himself a low-rent apartment, small and cramped but clean—cleaner than what he's used to. He gets a job at a local clinic, and though at first, they recognize him from the papers, no questions are asked, and he continues on with his life.

He meets Mary Morstan, one of his patients and the most wonderful and sweet young woman he's ever known. Somehow, they fall in love and get married, and for a while, John is happy.

Another year passes. Mary is diagnosed with an aggressive cancer. She lives for another six months and passes away at the age of thirty-three. The ache returns.

He barely notices that another year has passed until he receives a New Year's card from Molly Hooper, who sends them out of either pity or embarrassment (John doesn't know which or bother to care). As he stares at the card, he's reminded of the Christmas party three years ago at the flat. When they had all gathered together to celebrate. When _he _was still alive.

And John starts to cry because the hole in his chest is still there and nothing has or will ever fill it.

* * *

That spring, the engraved, glossy black stone beneath the tree misses its monthly visitor as John decides on a whim to visit the unused flat in Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson greets him with an enthusiastic welcome, and he lies that he's left one of his jumpers in the flat, knowing full well that he has no real reason to come back.

Gritting his teeth, he pushes open the door and the dust that has settled on everything in the room floats up to tickle his nose. He keeps his eyes on the floor, not daring to look around out of fear of remembering, and mindlessly walks into his old room and begins a search for his invisible jumper… when there is an unmistakable buzz in his jacket. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and nearly drops it.

_One text._

From that _one person._

He scrambles out of his room, knocking over a lamp, kicking up the dust, slamming open a door, tripping over the stairs, barely breathing even less believing this is real… But there, standing just outside the door is _him. _The same coat, the same scarf, the same knowing smile, the same goddamn cheekbones.

And John stares. And stares. And stares. Panting for breath. Eyes wide open in disbelief. Not knowing whether to feel shocked or relieved, angry or ecstatic. So he punches him.

When _he_ has picked himself up from the ground, John starts yelling at him, for letting him and everyone believe he was dead, for leaving him to grieve on his own, for not bothering to come back sooner, for messing up his life in every way possible.

In the midst of this, _he_ just stands there and listens without speaking, and somehow that makes John even angrier. But before he can make another sound, he finds himself buried into a warm coat with arms holding him tight, and despite the initial shock and ambivalence he feels, John slowly returns the hug… and begins to cry.

He doesn't care that there are people staring in the streets and that they might talk. He doesn't care that he's a grown man and is both sobbing and laughing hard into the shoulder of his friend. He doesn't care because nothing else matters anymore, _nothing_ except that he, Sherlock, is back, and the hole in his chest that had remained painfully open for three long years is now finally filled.

And the cycle of one's has begun all over again.


End file.
